


The More You Have, The More You Want

by infiniteeight



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Daredevil Season 2 spoilers, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, M/M, Matt doesn't realize what Foggy is doing, Minor ones, Reconciliation, but spoilers, feedee!Matt, feeder!Foggy, if that's potentially triggering, kinkmeme fill, there's an explanation in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fill for <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/7552.html?thread=14387840#cmt14387840">this prompt</a> on the Daredevil kink meme.</p>
<p>Six months after season 2 ends, Foggy spots Matt on the street and almost doesn't recognize him because he's gained a lot of weight.</p>
<p>A plan is formed to keep Matt off the streets as Daredevil.</p>
<p>(Matt is not aware of the plan, so you might want to check the notes for a better explanation in case of triggers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More You Have, The More You Want

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is from Foggy's POV and contains quite a few references to Foggy intentionally sabotaging Matt's diet and convincing him to eat more and gain weight. Matt is not at any point unhappy in their interactions, but it occurred to me that diet sabotage and related behaviour could be triggering, hence the note.

Foggy’s first thought, when he sees the guy, is, _Wow, that guy looks a lot like Matt._

His second thought is, _God fucking damn it, is everything going to remind me of Matt for the rest of my life?_

He takes another look, a more careful look, to prove to himself that not everything, everywhere, is about Matt Murdock. That’s when he sees the cane and realizes it actually _is_ Matt. 

Foggy stops dead in the street, then, and spends a couple of minutes just staring at Matt, who is sitting alone at a patio table at a coffee shop. Foggy almost didn’t recognize him. He’s known Matt for something like seven years, and Foggy almost didn’t recognize him. It’s not just the weight. Okay, it’s mostly the weight. Matt has been lean as long as Foggy has known him, but he’s not lean now. He’s put on at least twenty pounds, probably more like thirty. There’s a roundness to his face that was never there before, and he’s sitting differently because he can’t manage that almost prim straight-up-and-down kind of posture that used to be his default.

But it’s not _just_ the weight. For the first time since Foggy can remember--maybe the first time ever--Matt looks well rested. Not just like he got a good night’s sleep, but like he’s gotten a good night’s sleep every night for the past week. Or two. And there are no bruises, and no cuts. He’s not sitting like a man trying to hide the pain of broken ribs. He very obviously hasn’t been out fighting crime. Hell, he couldn’t even fit into the suit right now.

That’s what gets Foggy to cross the street. Not happiness to see his (former?) friend, not concern, not even curiosity, really. It’s anger.

Who the hell got Matt to stop throwing his life away when he wouldn’t stop for _Foggy_?

Foggy storms across the street in a fury, but he catches himself when he opens the door to the cafe, because Matt will know if he’s angry, and he won’t talk if the conversation starts like that. So Foggy makes himself stop just inside the door and take a few slow, deep breaths. Then he takes a minute to put his thoughts in order, like he would before opening statements in court. By the time he’s done with this witness, Foggy’s gonna have him spilling his guts.

Well, more than anyone else could, anyway. It’s still Matt Murdock.

When he’s calm and has his approach firmly fixed in his mind, Foggy sets off through the inside tables and ducks out onto the patio. “Matt?” He makes sure there’s no anger in his voice, just pure surprise. He’s got a lot of surprise to work with. “It _is_ you!”

“Foggy?” Matt says, and he sounds so surprised that Foggy wonders if he lost the super senses. But they’re in public, Matt’s probably just covering. “What are you doing here?” Matt actually squirms in his seat, and it hits Foggy like a ton of bricks:

Matt’s _embarrassed_. 

Foggy was expecting wariness, or defensiveness, something like that, after how things went down. But he’s embarrassed. And there’s only one reason Foggy can think of for that: Matt knows how much weight he’s gained, and he doesn’t like anyone who knew him before seeing it.

Foggy has a moment of pure sympathy. He spent most of high school yo-yoing through a twenty pound weight range before deciding fuck it, diets never worked for long and he’d rather be fat and happy than thin and starving and miserable. His strategy here never involved just asking, but he now resolves not to mention Matt’s weight at all. He shouldn’t need to, anyway.

“Hell’s Kitchen isn’t that big,” Foggy says. “I was just walking down the street, glanced over here and saw you.”

Matt ducks his head, turns away a little. “And decided you’d come over?” 

“Hadn’t seen you on the news lately,” Foggy says, dropping his voice slightly. He had actually very intentionally not been following that kind of news, but that means he really hasn’t seen Matt on it, so his heartbeat won’t give the half truth away. “Didn’t know what that meant.”

“Did it matter?” Matt asks, bleakly.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Foggy hisses, and the outrage is real, strategy abandoned. “I never wanted you _dead_ , Matt.”

Matt actually straightens up, his lips even twitching like he wants to smile. Christ, what’s his life been like the past six months that someone not wanting him to be dead makes him that much happier? “Just laid up for a while,” Matt says. Then he goes still for a moment, hand twitching towards his coat like he wants to pull it around himself, though he doesn’t actually do it.

That’s part of the puzzle. He got hurt badly enough to be off his feet, so he couldn’t exercise--train, whatever--the way he’s used to. “But you’re back on your feet now, right?” Foggy asks. Matt looks fine, he even looks pretty good, but there’s plenty of injuries that wouldn’t show on someone seated and not moving too much. Oh God, what if Matt’s _paralyzed?_ Foggy glances around, but he doesn’t see a wheelchair.

“I’m back on my feet,” Matt confirms, and Foggy’s breath leaves him in a whoosh. “It’s just, ah, taking a while to get back into fighting form. So to speak.”

It’s not a metaphor at all, of course, but no one’s going to think twice about it if they happen to overhear at a random cafe. “I’m sure you’ll get there,” Foggy says, almost by rote. It’s the kind of thing you say when someone’s trying to lose weight. And then the second--or is it third?--ton of bricks hits Foggy:

What if Matt doesn’t get there?

Foggy knows from personal experience how incredibly difficult it is to lose weight. He also knows that Matt’s never had to tackle that particular challenge before. Maybe because he’s naturally thin--some people are--like Foggy always thought, or maybe because he’s been training to be a fighter since he was nine years old, like Foggy learned a couple of years ago. Either way, Matt’s never had to try to lose weight, and he’s obviously struggling if it’s taking “a while”. 

He’s being trying for a while, and he hasn’t been out on the streets because he’s not in shape for it. Matt won’t be going out on the streets until he’s back in shape. Maybe… maybe if he never gets back into shape, he’ll never go out again. And if he never goes out again, maybe Foggy can have his best friend back. For real, this time, with no more lies and no more double life to steal him away. Foggy has _missed_ that Matt, the guy who used to laugh with him, dream with him, be there for him when his friend needed him. He’s been missing him for a lot more than six months, and if he has a chance to get Matt back, he’s going to take it.

The cafe’s waitress stops by the table and her eyes dart from him to Matt and back again, eyebrows twitching. Matt, Foggy guesses, is a regular. And no one’s ever been sitting with him before. “Can I get you anything?” She asks Foggy. 

“I’ll have a coke,” he says. “And, uh,” he flips opens the menu and scans down it quickly, a new strategy rapidly crystallizing. “The classic burger. With fries.” Foggy has already had lunch. He doesn’t need a burger. But he has a plan. “What do you want, Matt?”

Matt hesitates. “Just a coffee.”

Foggy is sure that hesitation means that Matt has either already eaten, or wasn’t planning to eat, but he’s going to misinterpret the hell out of it. “Do they not have a braille menu?” Foggy asks, putting a bit of exasperation into his voice, “Or did you not want to go to the trouble of asking for it, this time?”

The unknowing waitress plays along so beautifully, Foggy almost feels bad. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I could read the menu--”

“Nah, that’s okay,” Foggy smiles at her, reassuring. “He’s too stubborn for his own good, sometimes. He’ll have--” Matt tenses up “--the chicken caesar salad. Dressing on the side.” And Matt relaxes again. 

Foggy almost feels guilty, because this is all part of the plan. Next to a burger, a chicken caesar salad sounds healthy, especially with the dressing on the side. But here are a few lessons that Foggy has learned from his high school adventures in dieting: 

(1) When you get the dressing on the side, restaurants give you _more_ dressing, because adding it yourself means that the only possible complaint is not having enough, and they want to head that off. Foggy is planning to pour that shit on himself, and he’s going to use it all.

(2) A chicken caesar salad at a restaurant can have anywhere from 400 to over 800 calories, depending on how they prepare the chicken and what’s in the dressing and if there are any garnishes on the salad. Foggy has eaten here before, and while he’s never had this salad, he’s seen it ordered and knows for a fact that it’s on the over 800 end of things.

(3) Someone used to eating like Matt is used to eating isn’t going to be satisfied with a salad, and Foggy is going to have an entire plate of fries which he is going to be entirely happy to share. No one is thinking about the calories in “just one fry” and no one ever takes just one fry.

So yeah, Foggy almost feels guilty, because he is totally sabotaging whatever kind of diet Matt is trying to stick to to get himself into fighting shape. But only _almost_ guilty, because Matt is _rested_ and _not beaten up_ and maybe he feels bad about being kind of overweight right now, but Foggy is a fucking expert in being fat and happy. He can teach Matt to not give a shit about his weight, but he can’t teach Matt to not be dead, so Foggy is going to sneak every goddamn calorie he can onto Matt’s plate.

Lunch goes well. Lunch goes really well. Foggy doesn’t ask any more about what Matt’s been up to recently--he wants Matt to want to repeat this, and making him relive recent pain and embarrassment isn’t the way to do that. Instead, Foggy tells funny stories about starting out at Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz and he manages to segue that into reminiscing about their internship at Landman and Zach, and despite everything he gets Matt laughing, because it turns out that even now, Foggy knows Matt that well. 

And Matt eats all the salad, and all the dressing, and most of Foggy’s fries, and after eating the fries he’s thirsty so he orders a coke, and not a diet one, either. Foggy has always enjoyed food, but he’s never enjoyed watching someone else eat like this. Every fry and every sip of coke that goes into Matt’s mouth is a heady mix of triumph and happiness and relief, because every calorie is burying Daredevil deeper. 

When it’s all gone, Foggy wishes they were having dinner so he could order dessert, too. He tries for coffee--not much in the way of calories, even with sugar and cream, but he could get biscotti with it--but Matt waves him off, smiling. “I’m full, Foggy.”

“Yeah, me too,” Foggy says regretfully. “I just didn’t want to be done. I missed you.”

Matt’s expression goes soft. “Yeah, me too.”

Foggy licks his lips. Crunch time. “Maybe we could do it again?”

Matt’s face falls. “That’s not a good idea. It’s not safe.”

Foggy had hoped that trying to protect him and Karen had been a part of the big split, that it wasn’t just about the obvious reality that Daredevil was always going to come first, but God, it’s nice to know for sure. “No one’s been looking for you lately, though, right? It wouldn’t hurt, for now.” From the look on his face, Matt’s going best two out of three with temptation right now. Foggy just needs to tip the scales. He shrugs, then says, “I just shrugged,” because he wants Matt to remember the old days, and, “it’d be nice not to drink alone, for once,” because Matt has always been more sensitive to someone else’s pain than his own.

“Maybe a drink would be okay,” Matt caves. “For now.”

Foggy beams at him. 

***

Foggy calls Matt up the next day, just before he gets off work, because he is not going to take the chance that Matt talks himself out of this. “So how about that drink?” Foggy asks after Matt answers the phone. He almost holds his breath waiting for the answer, because getting Matt to agree to go out had gotten to be like pulling teeth near the end.

But Matt doesn’t argue at all, just says, “Sounds good.”

_Fuck yeah_. Foggy feels almost giddy.

“I found this place with the most amazing potatoes skins on Earth,” Foggy says, “and I totally have a craving. Meet me there?” He doesn’t want to go to Josie’s. Josie’s has baggage, and not nearly enough on the menu. Besides, those potatoes skins really are awesome.

Foggy gets there early and waits outside. He has to concentrate to stop himself from pacing or bouncing in place. There’s a lot at stake here, because there is a precarious danger zone in this plan where Matt might figure out what Foggy is doing and the resulting burst of anger might fire up his motivation enough to get him over the weight loss hump that he’s stuck on right now. Foggy could end up being the reason Matt gets back on the streets, instead of the reason he stays off them. Foggy’s gotta do this right. So yeah, he’s nervous.

A cab pulls up, and after a moment the door opens, and Matt gets out of the back. The weight is even easier to see when he’s standing, rounding out his belly and making his jeans catch on the broadness of his thighs. It softens the sharp edges Matt had developed over the last couple of years and makes Foggy think of tipsy nights in law school. Suddenly, he knows with absolute certainty that he’s not going to screw this up. The wave of happiness goes through him is a physical sensation, it’s so intense. 

Matt turns away from the cab and looks towards Foggy, but doesn’t step away from the curb just yet. Just because he can hear someone’s heart do a somersault, Foggy reminds himself, doesn’t mean Matt knows _why_. So Foggy makes sure his smile shows in his voice. “Hey, Matt,” He steps up and bumps Matt’s hand with his, and Matt only hesitates for an instant before he trails his hand up and takes Foggy’s elbow.

“Hey,” Matt replies. After a moment, his grip firms up. “Let’s go.”

Foggy guides Matt inside. This place is not a bar like Josie’s is a bar. It’s more like a very alcohol focused restaurant, which means there’s a host stand. The host takes one look at Matt and reaches under the stand and pulls out a _braille menu_ and goddamned, it’s like a sign from the universe: _You’re on the right path, Foggy, full speed ahead._

“I thought we were going for a drink,” Matt says after they’ve been seated.

“And this place serves drinks _in addition to_ the potato skins!” Foggy grins shamelessly. “Besides, bars are loud and it’s not really alcohol I’m interested in.”

“That would be the potato skins,” Matt says dryly, lips quirking, but Foggy knows that he got the not so subtle implication about the company.

“You’re only talking about them like that because you haven’t had them yet.” Foggy nudges the braille menu over to Matt. “See if there’s anything else on there that you want.”

“See? Have you forgotten--” Matt stops short in the middle of the old joke when he puts his hand on the menu to push it back over and realizes it’s braille. “Foggy, did you ask for this?”

“Nah, the hostess is just that good at her job, I guess,” Foggy says. His heart just about breaks at the look on Matt’s face, because between this and being happy that Foggy didn’t want him to be dead, it seems like Matt’s life has been short on any type of kindness lately.

“Your drinking establishments have taken a real step up.” Matt is trying to joke about it, but it falls a little flat.

Time to clear the air, Foggy decides. They need to get past their mutual change in circumstances so that Foggy can get them started on the happy part of the ‘fat and happy’ plan. “That happens when you get a paycheque on the regular,” he says, “but drinking alone doesn’t suck any less in a nicer place.”

Matt tilts his head. “You never used to have trouble making friends.”

“Eh, I’m friendly with my co-workers,” Foggy shrugs. “But there’s a lot of shit that they don’t understand, you know? And I don’t even mean the weird shit, really, I mean stuff like why we left Landman and Zach, or the kind of cases that leave you with a couple of cases of fruit in your office. Most of ‘em, their entire career is almost on rails. No unexpected detours.”

Matt laughs a little at that. “Did we ever have anything _but_ unexpected detours?”

Foggy thinks about it. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’, and Matt laughs again.

“Some of them were good, though, right?” Matt says.

“Some of ‘em still are,” Foggy says. He did not expect to run into Matt again, not like this. 

Matt looks conflicted, and Foggy knows that he has not missed the fact that, when it comes to their relationship, Foggy has been using the present tense while Matt has been using the past tense. Their waitress stops by for drink and appetizer orders before Matt can start insisting that this is just ‘for now’, though. Best timing ever; this is officially Foggy’s new favorite restaurant.

Foggy orders the potato skins and with a little prompting--“Come on, you know it’ll be weird if I’m eating and you aren’t”-- Matt orders Szechuan green beans and they both order a beer. When the waitress is gone again, Foggy folds his arms on the table and leans forward a bit. He’s done talking in the past tense, and he’s gonna make sure Matt is, too. “You know what I’ve been up to, so tell me what you’ve been doing to keep the lights on.”

“Mostly leaving the switch where it is,” Matt shoots back. Foggy snorts a laugh, but inside his heart clenches a bit, because that means Matt hasn’t been turning them on for anybody else. Matt sighs; apparently that heart clench was audible. “I made my choices,” he says, “and I had good reason for them, and if I could go back I’d do it again.”

“I know,” Foggy says, and it turns out it’s a whole lot easier to be chill about Matt saying shit like that when he knows that, at least for the moment, Matt _can’t_ put himself in that position again. “I’ve been working on vigilante cases for six months now, I’ve maybe gotten more perspective on things,” Foggy goes on. It’s not why he’s calm, but it is true. “Anyway, you didn’t answer the question.”

“Objection sustained, counselor,” Matt says dryly. “Consulting work, mostly. A lot of it is online, which is useful when I’m laid up. I still help people in the neighbourhood, if they ask.”

“Satisfying work?” Foggy asks.

Matt shrugs. “Some of it is interesting. Some days I watch Netflix and eat trail mix and ice cream all day.” He flushes slightly.

Foggy shakes his head. “I’m shaking my head. Trail mix. You need better indulgences.”

“I think I need fewer indulgences.” Matt runs a hand down his side and then covers, poorly, by reaching for his water glass.

“Spoken like a true Catholic,” Foggy replies. Matt smiles a little, self-deprecating. “Listen, you’ve been back on your feet for how long?”

“Two weeks.”

“And now I’m rolling my eyes at you.” Foggy doesn’t actually roll his eyes, though. “Nobody gets in shape in two weeks, and the folks who look like they do are actually doing pretty crazy damage to their bodies and they end up in worse shape later. It’s going to take time--” an infinite amount of time, if Foggy gets his way, but whatever, “--and if you refuse to let yourself have anything good at all for the duration, you’re going to end up jumping off a bridge somewhere. You’re allowed to have good things.”

Matt tilts his head, lowers his voice. “Am I?”

Foggy just looks at him for a minute. “Yeah, Matt. You are.”

Another quiet minute later their waitress shows up with their drinks and appetizers. “And you’re going to start,” Foggy says, as if they haven’t been sitting there silently, “with these potato skins.”

“The potato skins are yours!” Matt protests.

“Nope,” Foggy uses his fork to transfer three of the six skins, dripping with cheese and bacon, onto Matt’s plate, scooping over some of the green beans to make space. “We’re sharing. Eat. You can thank me when you swallow.”

“Do you say that to all the girls?” Matt jokes, but he’s finding his fork and knife and cutting the potato skin into thirds. Matt rarely eats with his hands.

Foggy smirks. “Just the boys.” Matt laughs, and then he puts the piece of potato skin in his mouth and makes a noise that belongs in a bedroom, not in a restaurant. Foggy smirks more, and lifts one of his own potato skins to take a bite. They don’t talk while they eat, the appetizers disappearing rapidly, and take big gulps of beer to wash them down--the green beans are spicy as hell. Foggy can’t take his eyes off Matt, the flicker of his tongue as he takes a bite, the smack of his lips as he chews and swallows, the satisfied noises he makes. 

When the appetizers are all gone, Matt smirks back at him and says, “Thank you,” and Foggy bursts out laughing and it’s easier after that. They don’t order dinner, but they do get two more orders of potato skins and more beers, and by the time they leave, Matt’s stumbling even more than Foggy is.

He says it again as they’re stumbling towards his apartment. “Thank you.”

From the sound of it, the end bitten off like he wasn’t sure he should say it at all, it’s about a lot more than the potato skins. “For what?” Foggy asks.

“For crossing the street.”

It takes Foggy a minute to realize Matt is talking about the day before. “Of course you knew I was there,” he sighs. “I don’t know why we even do the guiding thing.” He twitches the arm Matt is holding onto, even now.

“Thanks for that, too,” Matt says, and he sure sounds sincere. Maybe the booze has loosened his tongue, because he keeps going. “Just because I _can_ pre-- per--” he focuses to get the word out around his boozy tongue, “ _perceive_ things, doesn’t mean it isn’t _work_. I have to think about it, let myself open up to everything, organize all the input in my brain, and I have to do it fast.” He falls silent for a minute. Foggy waits. “It’s exhausting,” Matt finally goes on. “But I didn’t feel safe not doing it. Not even when I was alone. Not until you. When you’d lead me, I could relax.”

Oh, please let this be real, please let Foggy be getting Matt back, one piece at a time. Matt rested and healthy. Matt trusting him. There are more pieces, and Foggy wants them all. “Next time you want to relax,” he says, “give me a call.”

Matt makes a terrible wounded sound. “I can’t. I can’t let you come back, because I know eventually I’ll have to make a choice, again, and it hurts so much when you walk away.”

Foggy takes a minute to think about that, the logic moving slowly through his not-so-sober brain. If his plan fails, and Matt gets back into the suit, _will_ Foggy leave again? He’s not sure if he wants to say yes, to be strong enough to take care of himself, or if he wants to say no, to be strong enough to stand by his best friend even knowing the kind of shit that would inevitably go down. And no matter how he turns it around in his brain, he can’t see which way it’ll go. But he knows that his plan is doomed if he leaves the metaphorical door open.

“I can’t work with you,” Foggy says aloud. “Not ever again. But maybe… when you know for sure that you’re not going out, and I mean really for sure, you could give me a call and we can make it a real night off.” This is a dangerous offer to make. Matt only really knows he’s staying in when he’s too hurt to go out, and Foggy should not be giving Matt incentive to get hurt. But if his plan works out, that’ll never happen, and Foggy’s got to take a gamble or two to make this work.

Matt doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue, either.

***

Waiting for Matt to call is the hardest-- Okay, no, Foggy’s done a few harder things, including learn to sleep again after getting shot, but waiting for Matt to call instead of making the call himself is definitely in Foggy’s top five. He won’t give up if Matt doesn’t call, he’s giving it five days, but Foggy also knows that his plan will go a lot faster and a lot smoother if Matt makes a move here. 

Matt calls on the evening of the third day. Foggy’s damn glad that they’re on the phone because his heart leaps and then thunders with excitement and relief. It would totally give the game away. But they are on the phone, so he knows he’s safe. “Hey, Matt,” Foggy answers. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Matt says. He’s quiet for a long moment. “Do you want to come over?”

Foggy grins. “I’d love to.”

It’s just before dinner, so Foggy stops at their favorite Thai place and buys all Matt’s favorites and a couple of Thai beers to go with them. When Matt opens his door, Foggy beams at him and holds up the food. “I brought dinner!”

“It smells great,” Matt says. He still seems uncertain, but he steps back from the door to let Foggy in. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Foggy recognizes both, but instead of hanging comfortably off Matt’s frame, they’re snug. The sight makes Foggy feel warm and calm. “But you didn’t have to bring anything,” Matt goes on.

“I know,” Foggy says. He moves over to the couch and starts unloading food onto the coffee table. “But it was on the way and I hadn’t eaten yet, so I figured I might as well.”

Matt joins him on the couch. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting your night.”

“Nah.” Impossible to interrupt when he’d spent the last three nights waiting for Matt. “Just reading up some precedent for future reference. Why are all Judge Friedman’s cases a mess of motions and recalled witnesses? I need a damned spider diagram to keep track of it all.”

Matt smiles and takes the fork Foggy taps against his hand, reaching out for the food and finding a carton of Pad Thai. “Because Judge Friedman is a pushover who can’t make a decision. He thinks that hearing absolutely everything either prosecution or defense could possibly need to say makes a case more complete.”

“Or maybe this is vengeance for all the case law he had to read back in the day,” Foggy jokes, watching as Matt twists a mouthful of noodles around his fork and raises it to his lips. “Paying it forward instead of back.”

“Doesn’t seem very effective,” Matt shoots back. His lips are brushing the bite of food, and then they’re closing around the fork, sliding off the tines, tongue flicking out just for an instant.

Foggy tears his eyes away and forces himself to pick up a fork and his box of pineapple fried rice. By some miracle, he keeps the conversation going, even though every bite Matt takes is stoking that warm and calm feeling until it’s a hell of a lot more warm and a hell of a lot less calm. It’s not just the sight of his lips and tongue, either. Foggy hadn’t noticed in the cafe or the bar--too noisy--but Matt is making quiet but distinct pleased noises as he eats. And even though he doesn’t strictly need Foggy to do it, Matt smiles when Foggy tells him that the drunken prawns are at his eleven o’clock and the white rice is at his nine and fuck, the only thing better would be feeding Matt by hand.

The thought hits Foggy right in the gut and for a moment he’s breathless, thinking of it, of picking up one of those prawns and pressing it to Matt’s mouth. His lips would brush the pads of Foggy’s fingers as he took it, and maybe he’d lick the sauce off and _fuck_ , Foggy needs to stop thinking about this because he can feel his own temperature rising and any minute Matt is going to notice his rising heart rate, or smell him, or something.

Even as he thinks it, Matt pauses, fork suspended in the air, and turns to Foggy, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Foggy--” 

Matt breaks off, sitting frozen for a moment, and Foggy wants to say something, but before he can Matt lunges for his phone, sitting on the table by the food. “Call Luke,” he snaps once he has it in his hand. “Come on, come on,” Matt mutters while the phone dials. Luke, whoever that is, must pick up, because the next thing Matt says is, “Home invasion, somewhere between 42nd and 45th.” A pause. “I’m sorry, Luke, but you know 911 doesn’t always take me seriously when I can’t give an exact location. Yeah. Yeah. Parents and three kids, they’re all at home.” Matt’s shoulders are tense, his other hand trembling on his thigh. “They don’t know someone’s in the house yet.”

Just listening to Matt narrate the crime in progress is chilling. Actually hearing it must be a hundred times worse, and for the first time Foggy really gets why this originally drove Matt out into the night.

Luke, whoever he is, gets there just after the robbers find the parents, and a good five minutes before the police. Matt has to hang up when Luke arrives, but Foggy knows from the tilt of his head and the way his hand clenches that he’s still listening. Eventually he blows out a long breath and sags back into the embrace of the couch. “Everyone’s okay,” he reports. “They got the guys, too.”

“Good,” Foggy says. He wants to say, _See, there are other ways to help._ But he knows that would only make Matt angry. Foggy doesn’t want Matt to be angry, or to feel guilty that he wasn’t out there himself. He wants Matt to be happy, to not feel personally responsible for every terrible thing he overhears in this city because there are always going to be more terrible things and there’s only so much of Matt to go around. Matt would let it grind him down to nothing, but Foggy’s not going to let that happen. So Foggy doesn’t say anything else, just reaches out and tugs Matt into a hug and hopes that his heartbeat and his breathing drowns out any other sound.

He stays the night.

***

Matt invites him over twice more over the next week, and Foggy takes it upon himself to just show up a couple times on top of that. He’s prepared to back off if Matt shows signs of chafing under the attention, but he never does. Instead, he seems to soak up the attention like a sponge. From the bits and pieces Foggy picks up, Matt had been completely isolated even before he had both his legs broken (and _holy shit_ , Foggy he hopes he never hears Matt describe something that brutal that matter of factly again) and basically couldn’t leave his apartment until they healed.

If he noticed Foggy’s arousal during that first visit--and he must have--he doesn’t mention it. Or maybe the home invasion he overheard overrode the memory. Foggy’s glad. It was too early to have that conversation, then.

They’ve gotta have it soon, though, Foggy thinks, watching Matt lick barbeque sauce off his fingers. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep a lid on how much he’s been enjoying being with Matt. It’s not just how beautifully soft (safe) Matt has gone, and it’s not just how the weight makes him pleasantly solid ( _present_ ). It’s not just the tease of watching him eat, lips and tongue and fingers and all. Even more than any of that, it’s the way Matt has finally, finally let down his guard.

Even in law school, Foggy knew Matt was holding back. He never knew how _much_ , but he knew there was stuff that was deeply important to Matt that Matt wasn’t comfortable sharing. It took Foggy a long time to stop wishing that Matt get comfortable enough with him to share, and the fact that Matt never did is a big part of the reason that Foggy never made a play for something beyond friendship even though he’s been half in love with Matt forever. He’s kind of grateful for that, now. It would have been even worse if they’d been sleeping together when the shit hit the fan. 

But now, all that reserve is gone. It’s not that Matt is constantly spilling his guts--he’s got too much practice at bottling stuff up for that--but he’s not actively working at hiding it anymore. Foggy used to think that Matt was naturally stoic, but it turns out that he’s actually expressive as hell when he isn’t consciously hiding what he’s feeling. And a lot of the time, what he’s feeling is a lot darker than Foggy ever realized. It makes the moments when Matt really relaxes, when he laughs, even more beautiful.

“Something wrong?” Matt asks, and Foggy breaks out of his thoughts to realize that he’s been staring.

“Sorry, just lost in thought,” Foggy says. There’s a french fry dangling from Matt’s fingers. 

“What about?”

And maybe Foggy’s too distracted, or maybe his subconscious just decided that it’s time, but he blurts out, “Feeding you french fries.” Matt’s eyebrows go up and he gapes soundlessly, and Foggy flushes so hard his cheeks feel sunburnt. “Sorry, I know that’s weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Matt protests automatically.

“Matt.”

He looks sheepish and shrugs. “Okay, maybe it’s a _little_ weird,” he admits. “But not bad weird. I’m just not sure why you’d want to.”

Foggy drops his gaze to his own food. He’s barely halfway through, too busy watching Matt. “I like it when you let me take care of you,” he says, maybe mumbling a bit. That’s not the only reason why, but it is true.

After a long, silent moment, Matt’s tray of fries nudges into Foggy’s field of view.

He jerks his eyes up to Matt. “Seriously?”

Matt shrugs. “It might be a little awkward, but I don’t see why not.”

Foggy’s pretty sure Matt’s going to get a pretty good idea why not in a second, but he’s also pretty sure Matt’s not going to banish him forever if it turns out to be too weird after all, so Foggy’s not about to pass up the chance. He half turns on the couch and scoots closer to Matt and balances the tray of fries on his knee so that he doesn’t have to lean away from Matt to get another one. He lays the tip of the first fry on Matt’s lower lip, and Matt opens his mouth and lets Foggy slide it in and fuck, this is even more erotic than Foggy was imagining. By the time Matt closes his mouth to chew, his lips brushing Foggy’s fingertips, Foggy is halfway to hard. 

Neither of them say anything about it. Foggy feeds Matt more fries, and Matt takes them. Matt licks the salt from Foggy’s fingers, and leans closer, and says, “Another?” His nostrils flare, and Foggy thinks Matt must be smelling how turned on Foggy is, but he still doesn’t say anything, not even when Foggy says, “That was the last one,” and his voice comes out low and rough, better suited to the bedroom than the living room couch.

Matt’s never going to say anything, Foggy realizes suddenly. Maybe that’s his way of letting Foggy down easily, but Foggy doesn’t think so. If he was going to let Foggy down easy, Matt wouldn’t have spent the last half hour eating from his hand and licking his fingers. So Foggy figures, fuck it, and leans in and kisses Matt, hot and hungry and not subtle at all. 

Matt _melts_. He lets Foggy slide in close and fill up all the empty spaces between them, opens his mouth and turns the kiss into something deep and wet. Foggy ends up in Matt’s lap, plastered up against him, one hand in Matt’s hair and the other braced on the back of the couch as they kiss and kiss and kiss until Foggy’s lips are sore. 

When they finally part, the first thing Matt gasps is, “Are you sure you want this?”

Foggy has to laugh. “Your super senses are really letting you down if you can’t tell I want this,” he says. His stiff cock is pressed against Matt’s belly. He’d be self-conscious about that if he wasn’t sitting on Matt’s own hard dick, hot even through the layers of clothing between them. 

“I mean, I’m not--” Matt stumbles. “When I get back out there--”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Foggy promises. It’s not a lie. They’re just not going to ever come to that bridge.

Foggy sets about making sure Matt has happy, fun memories associated with every extra pound he’s carrying.

***

_Five months later_

When Foggy lets himself into Matt’s apartment--in name only, really, they’re just waiting for Foggy’s lease to run out--he’s startled by the warm, rich scent of cheese. Matt said he’d make dinner, but that usually meant salad or grilled chicken or something like that. Matt doesn’t seem to enjoy those meals much, but even though he happily inhales anything Foggy provides, the act of cooking always seems to remind him that he’s supposed to be working on losing weight. (He’s gained ten more pounds.) 

“I’m home,” Foggy calls out as he carries his briefcase into the corner of apartment that is transforming into his home office. “What smells so great?”

“Baked mac and cheese,” Matt calls back. He emerges from the bathroom drying his hands on a towel and meets Foggy in the living room for a quick kiss hello.

“The one with, like, six kinds of cheese?” Foggy asks eagerly, following Matt into the kitchen. The casserole dish is cooling on the top of the stove. Foggy has made this once or twice, and it’s _amazing_ , but there’s no denying it’s one of the most fattening meals possible, which means Matt usually has to be convinced to indulge.

“There’s only four kinds,” Matt says, amused, “but yeah.” He pauses, waits until Foggy is focused on dishing a couple of portions onto plates, and then speaks, very quietly. “I’m happy. And I wanted it.”

Foggy looks up and beams at Matt. This is almost as good as the day he convinced Matt to get rid of the bathroom scale.

Then Matt only brings one set of cutlery to the table, and it’s _better_.

~end~


End file.
